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Indie authors have cooties. I can say that because I . . . have cooties. I don’t have an agent or traditional publisher. I do have a couple of books and seven amazing fans. I have tried to imitate the cootie-free and their platforms—the way they announce new books on facebook and twitter, their sincere gratitude for readers, how they conduct author interviews. (Though I’ve stopped short of discussing my “craft” unless it’s followed by macaroni and cheese).

Their confidence smells so good vs. the decaying-baby-rattlesnake-clobbered-to-death-in-the-bottom-of-a-baseball-bat-bag-undiscovered-for-a-whole-season whiff of desperation that harbors the stinky bacteria of cooties.

Since I’m an indie, I guess I have to do it myself and make my own C.P.

Cootie Protection
2 TBSP Febreze
1/2 cup finely minced jealousy
1 cup blanched dreams
Stir in handful of Suck It Up
Shake fist at Universe
Spray liberally and make sure to get it in your eyes.

Bios are b-o-r-i-n-g. Unless it’s your own, and then tweaking it is like getting to second base, with yourself. When I eavesdropped on a friend of mine who said he didn’t like my bio, he quickly recovered with a song and dance about how wonderful I am. My feelings weren’t hurt (much!); I really wanted to know how to make it better.

Here is a crazy good getting-to-know you video bio – not a boring frame to be found, from the co-star of MTV’s new show, Catfish:

So how to translate that to an official bio? While it wouldn’t hurt to be an award-winning film director and star, don’t be afraid to make an ass of yourself, because you are. I know you are but what am I?

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DEE DeTARSIO is considering a nom de plume, believing that Delilah could come up with better steamy scenes.

Five books, seven covers, hundreds of reviews and a kabillion category changes later, I am applying for a spot on the Amazon Success Story scoreboard. Full disclosure: while I am not making enough to pay for Lululemon writing pants, I could probably spring for a pair of LuluLychees. (I would buy those.)

I lost my ego along with the placenta of my first-born, making writing a natural career choice. More than seven hundred rejections, three agents, and close-but-no-cigar publishers toying with my affections, I perversevered. (I know that’s not a real word, but it should be.)

Two years ago I pulled Amazon’s finger and brought forth on this continent, a new book, conceived in loneliness and dedicated to the proposition that all writers are weird. Now we are engaged in a great uncivil war, testing whether any book so conceived can long endure . . . (Please stop picturing me in a homespun Laura Ingalls Wilder dress, churning butter. I’m trying to thank Amazon here.)

Prototype of the new Fondle logo?

I owe Amazon a debt of gratitude, or at least a 70% royalty. Amazon’s cast and crew is conscientious and kind, and it feels great to be welcomed into their creative vortex.

I am on the edge of my seat, as both a reader and a writer, waiting to see what happens next. Suggestion box: Say someone was reading her kindle, drinking a glass of wine, and eating a chocolate brownie bundt cake, which resulted in a juggling mishap–with a happy ending. Siri suggests you call it the Fondle. (I’d tap that app.)